


Care

by StegesaurusKay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, Worried!Ham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StegesaurusKay/pseuds/StegesaurusKay
Summary: It's just a cough, maybe, probably, but Hamilton assumes the worst. He'll do whatever he must to ensure he doesn't lose his General.





	Care

The coughing sounds worse this morning, enough to distract Hamilton from his task at hand. When he glances up from his work he quickly spots the General leaning over his desk. He’s hunched over, muscles taut, fingers pressed against the wood with such pressure that his knuckles turn almost white. Washington coughs until he runs out of breath. He wheezes for a few seconds before coughing once, twice more, and then straightening as though nothing is amiss.

As Washington remains standing at the side of his desk, seemingly glancing over a report at the top of a stack of papers, Hamilton carefully lays his letter aside in favor of getting a better look. The General is pale, eyes glazed. Even from Hamilton’s angle he can tell that Washington is more staring at the report than actually attempting to read it.

“Sir?” He rises slowly from his seat, surprised by the startled reaction he gets. Washington turns his head sharply. His spine goes rigid. Clearly he did not notice Hamilton when he entered the workroom. Hamilton though doesn’t wait for acknowledgement- he ventures a couple steps closer. “You don’t look well this morning.”

Washington has not looked well for three days now, but he’s hidden his condition expertly from most all of his staff.

Hamilton is more observant than most all of his staff. 

There’s an awkward silence for almost a full minute. Hamilton takes one more step forward. He can’t stand the silence. Fear grips at his heart.

“Sir?”

The General takes a step away from the desk and fixes him with an even look. “I’m fine, Hamilton. The recent weather seems to have irritated my throat, but it’s nothing more than that.”

With that he retrieves his nearby cloak and hat and strides for the door, moving at a quick enough pace to avoid any further protest or concern. Washington steps outside, and the door closes heavy behind him.

Hamilton stands in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the door as familiar footsteps move away. He hears another round of coughing that quickly fades away. 

For a long stretch Hamilton just stands, staring at the door even though the General is long gone by now. His chest is inexplicably tight as a number of scenarios, all things that could go wrong, run through his head. Washington severely ill, bedridden for months, too sick to command. Washington dying.

What would become of them then?

Hamilton’s thought of his own end many times in his short life, but never has he considered his neck snapped at the end of a rope, deemed a traitor, their cause overwhelmed and defeated because of the loss of their general. 

He’s lost too many people in too few years. Hamilton feels a sudden, unwelcome tightness in his chest. Some small part of him insists that Washington is not that sick. Not like his mother was those years ago. He certainly isn’t on his death bed, or not yet, but of one thing Hamilton is certain.

He will not lose his General now.

He draws a sharp breath, and quickly turns back to his desk. Carefully he moves the letter he’d been working on to the edge of the desk, and as he sits he leans over a fresh parchment and begins to write. 

It’s nearly dark when the approaching, heavy footsteps catch Hamilton’s attention. He lifts his head just in time to see the door open. Washington steps through the doorway, head low and in the middle of another coughing fit. Hamilton winces, wonders how many times that’s happened today. The General looks even worse than he did before he left. If there was any doubt of fever before there can be no longer. He’s paler than Hamilton’s ever seen him, and were the man anyone other than George Washington, he’d be expected to collapse where he stands.

Hamilton is quick to rise from his desk and move to the General’s side. “Your Excellency,” He greets. Washington looks toward him, not surprised like he seemed earlier in the day, but with a posture and expression so weary, Hamilton thinks he ought to prepare to catch him.

“Hamilton,” Washington removes his hat and ventures two steps forward to place it on his desk. He drapes his cloak almost carelessly on the nearby chair and goes to sit.  
This is no good. Hamilton knows if he cannot steer the General to rest now, it will not happen.

The awkward tightness in his chest returns with a surprising flare that nearly overwhelms him. For a moment his ears ring and he fixes his eyes on Washington.  
“Sir,” He blurts out, “You really don’t look well. You should rest before—”

“I’m well enough, my boy,” Washington cuts him off with a weak wave of his hand, but he doesn’t sit. He fixes Hamilton with a weary look, runs a hand over his face and stifles a short cough. “Greene is supposed to stop by to discuss—”

“Not tonight, sir,” Hamilton interrupts. He almost bites his tongue when the General arches a brow, but he pushes himself to continue after a beat. “I sent him a message asking to reschedule.”

A sigh, “Hamilton…”

“I told him you were held up with another matter,” Hamilton explains quickly. He sent half a dozen short letters throughout the afternoon, clearing the General’s schedule for the next couple of days with claims of being double booked or otherwise occupied. All simple enough, but specific enough that no one will question.

Hamilton knows what he is doing.

“You’re free for the rest of the night, sir,” He explains. Washington stares at him in tired surprise. For a few seconds Hamilton holds his breath, before he dares to continue into more uncertain ground, “Unless you’d like to write to your wife.”

Washington fixes him with an odd, suspicious look. Hamilton expects he’ll be asked if he’s written her too, though that’s a line he chose not to cross. In the end Washington doesn’t ask, and he steps back from his desk and faces him.

“You’re a bit of a hypocrite, Hamilton,” He says. His voice is so hoarse it’s impossible to tell if he means it in jest.

He can only respond with a confused look.

Washington gives a weak chuckle and coughs a couple times. “I seem to recall being faced with a stony defense when you were ill barely two months ago.”

Hamilton flushes, feels his face turn hot. He has vague recollections of a vicious fever, refusing to abandon his work until he all but fainted in the workroom. Even as Washington carried him to his bed he insisted he could work. In response, he was told, in such precise words, to shut up and rest.

“I’m not as important as you are, Your Excellency,” He says at last. It’s true. Were Hamilton to die of fever, he will not be remembered as he so hopes to be, but the war will go on. Washington will still lead.

Washington gives him a look with… something so intense behind it, that Hamilton almost forgets the man is ill. “You have tremendous value to me, my boy.”

“But little value to Congress,” He counters with a smirk.

The General responds with a short chuckle that dissolves into a coughing fit. As he did earlier, he leans over the desk to support himself, hacking harshly into one arm. Once the coughs subside he stays in that same position, an awkward silence settling between them.

“I suppose for tonight I might retire early,” He says at last. Washington’s shoulders sag as he speaks. Hamilton wonders how much luck he might have trying to assist the General up the stairs. 

In the end he doesn’t have to. Washington moves to the stairs at a shuffling pace and climbs them on his own. A minute later the door closes and Hamilton is left standing alone in the workroom. This was too easy. Hamilton glances back at his desk- there’s more work he can do with the General indisposed.

But he cannot shake the worry churning in his gut.

Hamilton doesn’t recall falling asleep, but he wakes to the earliest stretches of dawn, pale gray light streaking across the floor. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, sits up at his desk. He instantly thinks of the General, and his head jerks toward the stairs as he pushes to his feet.

He’s not alone. A handful of men, and Laurens, are gathered at the base of the stairs, all silent. Hamilton slows as he approaches the stairs. Laurens looks toward him. There’s something wrong, his eyes, red rimmed and glazed. Laurens extends a hand and claps it on Hamilton’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Hamilton tries to look past Laurens, the other soldiers. Everything seems foggy, save the face right in front of him.

“The General,” Laurens says quietly. The hand squeezes against his shoulder, but all Hamilton feels is a knife twisting in his stomach. “He passed away during the night.”

Suddenly Hamilton’s ears are ringing. He takes a sharp step back, shakes his head. “No,” He says quickly. “I- he wasn’t that bad off last night. I saw him to bed and—”

“Sorry, Ham.”

He reels. He can’t believe this. Hamilton tries to push past his friend, past the gathered men to rush up the stairs. He’s pulled back, suddenly finding himself against a wall. Laurens is in front of him again.

“I need to see him!” Hamilton blurts out. There's strained desperation in his voice, tears pooling in his eyes.

Laurens merely regards him with that same sad look again.

“Why didn’t you do more?”

Hamilton jerks like he’s been slapped. “What?”

The room swirls together, overwhelming and gray, until he cannot make out anything else.

“It’s your fault.”

“No!” 

Hamilton pushes upright, startled to find himself again seated at his desk. It’s still dark, only a hint of moonlight trickling into the workroom.

A dream. He closes his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. His heart pounds in his chest. 

It was just a dream.

Still, Hamilton is quickly on his feet and up the stairs. He stops in front of the door to Washington’s quarters and hesitates only for a moment before letting himself in. The room is dark, but it’s simple enough to make out the shape in the bed.

Hamilton moves quickly, quietly, to the side of the bed. It’s obvious in an instant that the General is breathing- there’s a shift in the blankets, a wheeze sounding in the air.  
He extends a hand before really considering it, resting his palm against Washington’s forehead. He knew before the man went to bed that he was feverish, but the heat under Hamilton’s hand leaves him stunned. He reacts quickly, moving about the room to retrieve a pitcher of water, empty it into a basin, and locate a clean cloth.

Hamilton sets the basin on a little table next to the bed and pulls a chair to the bedside. He wets the cloth, rings it out carefully, and lays it across the General’s brow.  
The cool sensation makes him stir instantly. Washington wakes with a start, his hand instinctively snatching Hamilton’s wrist in the darkness. He breathes heavily for a few moments, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes, “What…”

Hamilton suppresses a startled yelp, “Sir, it’s me.”

Finally the tired gaze finds his face, but it doesn’t alleviate the confusion. “Hamilton. What in the world are you doing?”

He doesn’t have an answer, not right away. _I worry. I thought you’d died. We cannot go on without you. You’re needed. I need you._

Hamilton clears his throat. “I just wanted to check on you before I went to bed, sir. Your fever seems higher.” 

Washington breathes an unhealthy sounding sigh. “I’m resting, as you recommended, my boy,” He says hoarsely. “I’ll be fine.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather stay and make sure,” Hamilton speaks without thinking. Later he’ll hate how pathetic, how desperate he sounds in this moment. 

“Hamilton…”

“Please, sir.”

Washington doesn’t reply. He squeezes Hamilton’s hand, and closes his eyes again.

The General is right. He turns out to be fine. The fever breaks the following afternoon. The coughing is much less severe. Washington is out of bed and working again the morning after that.

And when he does leave his quarters to resume his duties, Hamilton falls in step right behind him, as he always does.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, ya made it! Thank you for reading!
> 
> I have bunches of shorter Hamilton ficlets posted on my tumblr [**here**](https://stegekay.tumblr.com/post/185373224799/hamilteaser-masterlist). I'm currently open for short requests and I love getting new ideas!


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